


Frosting

by joban_disaster



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Early Modern Era, Everyone is so very very done with it, Expecting Dad Aramis, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Historical References, Pregnant Queen Anne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-04
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-08-18 17:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16521482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joban_disaster/pseuds/joban_disaster
Summary: His brothers are the worst. Luckily, there's cake. Lots and lots of cake.





	Frosting

"Not that I would ever criticize the behavior of the queen of France," now-minister Treville mutters to Athos over dinner, "but she has become very… excitable… since the announcement of her second pregnancy."

Athos winces "Not that I would ever condone such an expression, but the palace has become something of a…"

"Madhouse?" D'Artagnan slumps down beside them, pulling a mug of beer towards him and dropping his head down on his arms. "Menagerie?"

"'Everyone-hates-Aramis' zone?" Porthos chimes in from the yard where he's play-fighting with the man in question.

The marksman swats him upside the head. "Thanks ever so."

"True, though," D'Artagnan says through his arms. "The king can't stand you—"

"It's reciprocal," Aramis retorts irritably.

Porthos snorts. "Half the women in court are enamored with you—" Aramis preens. "—and the other half would like to see some rather sensitive parts of your anatomy removed." The half-Spaniard's smug grin fades.

"—and then you and the queen have your whole… disaster," Athos finishes dryly. D'Artagnan laughs and quickly covers it with a series of hacking coughs when Treville glares at him.

"You are all disgraceful."

Athos cheerfully ignores the minister's disapproval. He smirks. "Have you heard about her latest pregnancy whim?"

Aramis groans. "Athos, don't start—"

"Cakes," Porthos announces with deep glee. "Making Aramis fetch cakes from the kitchen. With _lots_ of frosting. At _all_ hours."

Treville drops his head to the table next to D'Artagnan. "Aramis _,_ we are trying to _avoid scandal_ —"

"Good puppy," Porthos teases. Aramis growls at him, doing very little to disprove the joke.

"Maybe it's just a phase," D'Artagnan suggests optimistically.

Athos' smirk grows bigger. "Maybe she likes seeing him suffer."

"It _is_ an immensely amusing pastime," Porthos agrees. The two musketeers exchange a knowing look.

Aramis pouts, glaring at the other soldiers. "I thought you were supposed to be my friends." He tosses his head back and groans dramatically. "I'm so sick of frosting. Sometimes she demands I sample them to make sure they're good— 'only the best for the child,' she says. I swear I've gained weight." He tugs at his blue sash for emphasis.

Treville scowls at Aramis. "Listen here, brat." He jabs a finger at the marksman, who blinks back with an innocent, "who, me?" gaze. "Whatever the queen asks of you, you will do it. She says bring cake? You bring all the damn cake you can carry. She says throw yourself out the window— which I would personally _love_ to see happen— you aim and jump." The minister glares darkly at the musketeer. "You are, as of now, the queen's most obedient, supportive servant. You owe her your entire unworthy damn _life_ for what you did."

"I've always been obedient and supportive!" Aramis protests.

D'Artagnan bursts into another coughing fit.

"Minister," Athos points out mildly, "surely we should have some sympathy for our brother in arms? We _did_ say the queen was acting a little more… _spontaneously_ …. than normal."

Porthos manages about four seconds of a straight face before collapsing into guffaws. Athos smirks along with him, and even Treville looks pleased despite himself. D'Artagnan has tears running down his face.

"Traitors." Aramis throws them the haughtiest scowl he can muster. "You're all disappointments to the regiment."

"At least we're not leashed to the frosting board," D'Artagnan chokes out.

"Are you more chocolate or vanilla?" Porthos is laughing so hard he can barely breathe. "Maybe butter cream?"

Aramis throws his hands up. "I'm disgusted by all of you. Now, if you'll excuse me—" and he shoots them a black look as he stalks off, "—I have a noon cake to deliver."

A round of laughter follows the marksman as he leaves. He can't help but grin at his brothers' mirth; after all, it's not every day a musketeer becomes the very-pregnant queen of France's cake-fetcher.

His smile widens.

He's become surprisingly fond of cake, and when he kisses crumbs that have fallen into Anne's bodice off the tops of her breasts, he finds himself overwhelmingly content in his status as the royal cake-fetcher for as long as asked, no matter the teasing from his brothers. His new "duties" bring him in constant proximity to a glowing, joyous Anne, radiant in her pregnancy and sweeter on his tongue than ever. The Dauphin wanders around the edges of his mother's circle of attendants, delightfully unstable on his feet. Aramis savors every moment the child laughs and babbles in toddler French spattered with lisping Spanish.

And, of course, he hasn't told the musketeers _where_ the queen asks him to taste frosting. He wishes he could see Treville's face if he informed him he'd grown quite familiar with the _lapping_ aspect of _lap dog_.

(Really, he thinks, frosting is the best thing that's happened to him in a very long time.)


End file.
